House of Cards book one: State of Grace
by graceofgod
Summary: When Dean disappears, Sam is plunged into a desperate race to find his brother before he pays the price in a terrifying game with a long forgotten past.
1. Among The Dead

**A/N: This is the first story in a series, 'House of Cards'. This, and the second story - 'The Darkness Before The Dawn' are complete, both have been beta'd by RoweenaC and Impaladreams - ta girls! It's pretty dark in places, especially the second story and there's a fair bit of language, hence the rating. I'm currently working on the third story.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**All I own is... damn. Nothing. *sigh***

**Chapter 1:**

_Among the Dead_

_A broad incision sits across the evening,_

_The victim to our father's lost war_

_The restless children sit and mourn the graves_

_Of those they've never seen before_

_~~HoC~~_

**Mustang, Nevada**

**October 25****th****, 2008**

Something was wrong.

Something was… missing.

The loss nagged steadily at him, crept into already fitful dreams and turned them cold and bitter. He dragged himself awake, crawling up from the dark, twisting shadows that tried to catch him and drown him in their emptiness, finally cracking his eyelids open the barest slit. Staring blearily out through the thin gap, caged by his lashes, he saw the keys of his laptop, felt them digging into his cheek as he listened, stretched out his senses and heard nothing, _felt _nothing.

His heart thumped hard, once, painfully strong against his ribs as his breath lodged in his throat and turned sour. He sat up, peeling his face from the keyboard which slid away across the table, sending papers slithering over the edge to drift around his legs as he stared around the room, feeling the emptiness drain the life from him.

"Dean?"

The whisper startled him, sent a pulse of adrenaline surging through his blood before he recognised his own, stunned voice. But the sound broke something in him, and he pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly at the sudden change in altitude. He scrabbled at his jacket, hanging on the back of the chair, swearing as his phone caught in the lining as he tore it free. Threads tumbled loose as he flipped the top open, thumbed the message button with shaking fingers and watched the screen light up, _one missed call._

He almost sighed with relief, couldn't quite manage it as he scrolled through menus, saw his brother's name on the listing and called the answer phone.

'_You have no new messages.'_

His throat clicked dryly as he swallowed hard, hope draining away as fast as it had bloomed.

"Dean?"

Louder this time, breaking at the end as he gasped for air, suddenly breathless in the silence as he stared at the empty bed between himself and the door, sheets neatly, tightly folded, military style.

_No._

"_Sure you don't wanna come, Sammy? Night out would do you some good. Might find a geek chick at the bar, work out some of that tension…" _

He flinched away from the echo in his head, remembering the raised eyebrows and grin that flashed in his direction as he sat at the table, attention fixed to the laptop before him.

"_No, Dean. Go, get drunk, get… whatever."_

"_Well okay, grandma. Don't wait up!" _

"Dean!"

But the bed was still empty, the dawn light creeping through the thin gap in the curtains, gilding the hollow motel room with a beautiful lie.

His brother was gone.

_~~HoC~~_

**Litchfield, Maine**

**August 2****nd****, 1996**

He watched them in the mirror for as long as he could, eyes flickering between the empty road in front, and his sons standing in the motel window behind, until the Impala rumbled her way around a corner, and the two small figures were lost from view.

John sighed shakily.

Every time he left, he thought it would be easier. Every time it was harder. He swiped a hand roughly across his mouth; his wedding ring catching at his lips as it always did, sending the same old flash of hurt through him, deep inside.

He saw the town drift past, softening in the late summer sun that pounded the streets, dead leaves stirring fitfully in the breeze of his passing. He felt disconnected from it, the everyday world of sunlight and laughter, of parents walking their kids to the bus stop in time for school, taking them home again in the evening and tucking them into bed at night. Sometimes, he missed the days when his boys were young enough, innocent enough to let him tuck them into bed with a ruffle of their hair for a goodnight.

He licked suddenly dry lips at the memory, swallowing hard as he remembered Mary ruffling his hair the same way, murmuring _I'll_ _still love you when you're bald _and shaking a few stray strands from her fingers.

His reflection wept silently back at him and he flinched away from it, knocking the mirror askew with one fist, so hard it nearly broke away from the windshield.

He sighed again, forcefully this time, a harsh rush of air between tight lips as he dragged calm down around himself again. Reaching forward, he glared at the world outside as he stabbed at the radio, starting a little at the sudden blast of music from the speakers.

"Dammit, Dean!" he muttered, hurriedly twisting the volume until the screech died to a level that didn't punch straight through his eardrums and reverberate from one side of his skull to the other. But he didn't pull the tape out, left it playing, imagining he could hear his eldest son's restless fingers tapping at the door sill or the steering wheel.

The hunter glanced in the rearview mirror one last time as he swung left onto Middle Road, the Maine Turnpike a glittering ribbon at the end of the street. He couldn't see the motel anymore.

The signs swept past, carrying him further away from his boys and he turned his mind to focus on the hunt a little more with each one.

_Pine Tree Road_

A trail of missing young men and women, going back years, decades. No common link between them, except that they were all taken so swiftly, so silently, no-one noticed they were gone for hours, sometimes days.

_Now leaving, Litchfield Plains, Maine_

And in each town, reports of cemeteries desecrated, graves disturbed and headstones shattered.

_Small Road_

Not much, but it was enough. It had taken months, tracking back and forth across the country, putting together a map of the disappearances, talking to family and friends and priests, but he'd finally found it the link.

Reports of a biker gang sweeping through around the time of the disappearance, vanishing into the wild, empty spaces between the small towns, finally reappearing years later, never hitting the same place twice.

Until the night they did.

One mistake, one temptation too strong, and the elderly priest who saw a young man he recognised, unchanged, unaged in the fifty-eight years since he'd first seen him, standing in between the smashed headstones, graveyard dirt black on his hands and cold, blue lips.

_Revenants._

It was more than enough for the man driven, obsessed with finding and killing the shadows that lurked in the night.

So he'd left his children behind, forcing himself to ignore the sullen obedience of his eldest and the fearful arguments of the youngest, biting his lip as he told the seventeen-year old, "Look out for Sammy."

He snapped on the blinkers, his heart thudding in time to the clicking as he swung onto the on-ramp and up to the turnpike, flooring the gas and feeling the engine snarl beneath him.

And he left them again.

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Litchfield**

**August 18****th****, 1996**

He swung through the door, letting it slam behind him, almost catching his heels as he shuffled in, arms full of bags and boxes.

"Sam!" he hollered, feeling the bottom of one box start to give way as he hurried across the room to the kitchenette tucked into one corner. An indistinct yell came back at him from the other side of the closed bedroom door and he rolled his eyes, huffing out a quick, irritated sigh.

Then his boots came down onto something that cracked loudly and he stumbled, catching sight of the smashed bowl under his feet, the box finally giving way and spilling bags down his legs, half the packets splitting as they hit the musty carpet.

"Oh, Crap!" he snarled.

In a perfectly choreographed chain reaction, his feet tangled up in the packets and he staggered again, legs hitting the couch at an angle and he went flying, the shopping crashing to the floor around him as he landed awkwardly on the cushions. The sound of shattering glass and the scent of the sauces inside pouring out onto the brown and green pattern of the floor was the final straw.

"SAM!" Dean roared, fury and weariness roughening his voice until he sounded more like their father than himself. He heard a door click and a few hesitant footsteps, then a snigger, hastily muffled that made his blood boil. He surged up from the wreckage of the groceries and rounded on his brother.

"Where the hell were you, Sam? And why is there a damn bowl in the middle of the freakin' floor!"

The younger teen shrugged nonchalantly, but didn't meet his brother's eyes.

"Got hungry."

"You got hungry? And just how the hell does that explain the bowl in the middle of the floor, Sam? Huh?"

"I forgot. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry."

Now Sam looked at him, as his voice turned to ice. The thirteen-year olds eyes were defiant in a way Dean rarely saw directed at himself now, ever since the Christmas five years ago when the younger boy had tossed their Dad's journal at him and said in a voice brimming with cock-sure certainty, _'I know why you keep a gun under your pillow'. _That confidence hadn't lasted long, just until the point that Dean had confirmed what his brother had really wanted him to deny.

These days, it was replaced with an odd blend of worry and rebelliousness.

Sam shrugged again.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. It's just some groceries, Dude."

Dean opened his mouth, shut it again with a snap and stared at his brother.

_Does he really not get it?_

He honestly couldn't remember a time when he'd been so angry with Sam, so furious that it burned straight through the echo of a warm, soft bundle thrust into his arms, drowned out _'Look out for Sammy' _and made his fingers itch and curl into a fist. He struggled to hold it at his side, trembling, knowing at least half of the anger wasn't directed at his brother at all, but still barely able to contain it.

Abruptly he turned, stamped back out of the room again and left his shocked brother standing in the mess of groceries with a surly look on his face as he slammed the door behind him.

Not knowing or caring where he was going, Dean walked, anger lengthening his stride, his boots pounding against the sidewalk. The air was hot, stifling and sweat soon darkened his t-shirt, dripped down his back but he kept walking, turning down unfamiliar roads until he'd left the houses far behind.

He turned off the road, kicking his way into the scrub below the trees. Grabbing a low branch for balance as he swung past it, he suddenly realised he was trembling, shaking, breath coming in short, harsh pants, his hair plastered to his head and dripping salt into his eyes.

"Great. Give yourself freakin' heatstroke while you're at it, Winchester. Smart move, dumb ass!," he muttered, feeling the trees tilt around him. Breathing deeply he leant against the trunk and slid down it trembling, feeling the bark scratch at his skin and not caring. Sitting in last years dead leaves, shaking, he tipped his head back against the tree, closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, fighting down the yell of anger and fear that bubbled up in his throat.

_Nine days. He's nine days late. He's never been nine days late._

He shuddered once, shoulders pulling up defensively, breaths hitching deep within his chest as he finally let himself think the thoughts that had been locked away for days.

_What if he isn't coming back?_

He didn't need to count the bills and change stuffed into his pocket to know they were fast running out of options. The money John had left in the old coffee jar in the cupboard was gone, his own personal stash all-but wiped out to buy the groceries that had been meant to last them a week and were now decorating the floor of the motel room.

Dean opened his eyes, stared up at the sky, barely visible through the leaves of the beech tree he leant against.

"What do I do, Dad?" he whispered, not hearing the catch in his voice as he listened to the soft, deep murmur inside his head.

_You do what I trained you to do, son. You find a way._

He sucked in a breath with a gasp, let it out again in a trembling sigh and rolled his head forward, resting it on his arms as he tucked his knees beneath them. Staring down past his boots to the russet carpet beyond, he mused that the dead, year old leaves looked nicer than the out-dated carpet in the motel room.

Then he started to plan.

By the time he was done, dusk had enveloped the woods, shrouding the trees in shadows that shifted and changed with the slight breeze. Pushing himself wearily to his feet he grabbed at the tree as the world tilted dizzily beneath him.

"Dammit…" he ground out, vision blurring as he hung desperately onto the rough bark, head down, fighting to breathe through the nausea and pounding headache, black spots dancing across the fog behind his eyes.

His knees buckled, starting to fold beneath him and he staggered forwards into hands that suddenly wrapped around his shoulders. He almost lashed out, barely stopped the blow as he breathed in the scent of _family _and _home. _Instead, he leant into his brother, listening to the teen curse like a sailor as Sam eased him back to the ground.

"Oughta wash your mouth out, Sammy."

"Oughta wash your skull out, Dean," the teen retorted. "What the hell were you thinking? Here."

The bottle that pressed gently against his lips was at odds with the angry, biting tone and he cracked open one eye as he let the warm water sluice down his throat, finally realising how desperately thirsty he was.

"Whoa, take it easy. Not too much."

Dean nodded, tipped his head back against the tree again and watched his brother from the corner of his eye. Sam stared back at him, biting his lip, brows drawing together into a frown too old for his years.

_Good job, Winchester. Yell at the kid then freak him out by disappearing and letting him find you practically passing out like a damn girl._

He reached out, grabbed at the bottle, pleased when his fingers closed firmly around it on the first attempt. Sam let him take it, but watched intently as he spun the cap off and took another long, slow swig, then poured a handful of water and splashed it over his face and back of his neck. The younger boy's face twitched into a reluctant smile as Dean sighed in heartfelt relief.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"You wanna head back to the motel now?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna say anything other than 'yeah', Dean?"

"Nah."

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed as he helped Dean up, steadying him as he swayed, frowning, feeling the skin on his face tighten.

"You got a nice burn going on, Dean. Look like a lobster."

"Shut it, runt."

They started walking, Sam kicking the leaves around them in a whirl of energy that just exhausted Dean further. He smiled a little at the grin on his brother's face as Sam peered at him again and spoke with convincing consideration.

"Or maybe a baboon's ass."

"Sammy…"

"Yeah, just like a baboon's ass."

"Sam!"

Sam grinned at him and he laughed a little, catching sight of the road ahead between the trees. They walked in silence for a while, Dean's pace slow, Sam happy to match it. But it wasn't just the lingering dizziness and weariness of the dehydration that slowed his stride. He didn't want to go back to the motel, didn't want to see the empty space in the parking lot outside their room, as if until he set eyes on that void, aching like the gap where a tooth used to be, sore and hollow, none of it was real.

"Is Dad coming back?"

The question literally took his breath away, like a low blow to the stomach, left him stranded between steps, one foot hovering in midair as he stared at his brother. Sam walked on a few paces, stopped, and turned back to him, face utterly serious and ancient.

"Sam…"

"I know he's late, Dean. Really late. Is he – is he coming back?"

The hesitation turned something over in Dean's stomach. It was young, scared, lost, jarringly at odds with the age suddenly creasing the younger boys face into something bitter. He didn't need to read minds to know the question wasn't the one his brother had started to ask.

"Yeah, Sammy. He's coming back. I promise."

His voice was rough, almost unrecognisable as he reached out and grabbed hold of Sam's shoulder.

"He's just held up somewhere, that's all. He is coming back."

Sam nodded, eyes too bright and Dean pulled him into his chest, wrapping his arm around the boys shoulders and burying his lips in the long hair.

"I promise."

His brother finally stopped shaking, nodding his head against Dean's chest, ruffling his tear-dampened t-shirt.

"But we gotta make some changes, Sammy. Okay?"

"Whatta'ya mean?"

The question was muffled, punctuated with a loud sniff and Dean grimaced in disgust but didn't loosen his arm.

"We can't stay in the motel any more. I'll find a place we can…"

He trailed off.

_A place we can squat. He's thirteen years old and I'm making him camp out in empty houses. Jesus, Dad._

"'S okay, Dean. Didn't like that motel anyway."

"No?"

He could barely force the words out through the lump in his throat as Sam shook his head and gave a rough laugh.

"No. Carpet sucked. Even before you redecorated."

Dean laughed back, a low chuckle that built slowly, rumbling up from his chest until he had to let go of his brother to hold on to his sides. Sam grinned at him, eyes shining again, but with mirth now as he started to join the hilarity.

And just like that, it was okay again for a while.

**A/N: So it seems I have a fondness for opening stories with that phrase. Hmm. I wrote this story nearly a year ago; And The Wind It Blows (where almost exactly the same phrase turns up!) was written a few weeks back. Guess it snuck in under the skin somewhere and lurked... (sorry for the shameless plug!)**

**The lyrics at the beginning and chapter title are from Coheed & Cambria, 'In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3'**


	2. Trying To Find Where You Belong

**_I know you feel helpless now,_**

**_I know you feel alone._**

**_Well that's the same road,_**

**_The same road that I'm on._**

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Mustang, Nevada,**

**October 25****th****, 2008**

The cab driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, eyes crinkling up with concern.

"You sure you want me to drop you here kid?"

Sam nodded.

"Your funeral."

The careless words sent a spike of heat through his veins, cutting through the chill that seemed to have settled into his blood ever since he'd woken up to find his brother

gone.

Wordlessly, he flipped a few bills at the cabbie and climbed out, slamming the door behind him and listening to the car peel away. He stared at the bar, doubt suddenly plaguing him, reluctance dogging his heels as he slouched slowly towards it. Gravel crunched underfoot, ground against his already frayed nerves and scraped them raw as he shivered, tried to tell himself it was because of the cool morning air.

The tall buildings towering on either side of the bar shaded it and he instinctively knew the scruffy, squat building wouldn't see sunlight for several hours still. The gloom didn't stop him frowning at the battered sign above the door, the neon tubes sagging and blackened where they weren't smashed completely. The windows dark, gaping mouths barred by heavy grilles, the thick, coarse glass stained and smeared as he peered in, his keen gaze picking through the room.

He noted the worn stools, lined up under the bar, both as battered as the exterior of the building. The floorboards, once gleaming, were rough and warped; the tables scattered through the long, narrow room wobbly and deeply scarred. The dirty glasses behind the bar dimly reflected back distorted images of the posters on the walls, faded and ripped, band logos still just about visible on some. He hated it on sight, knew his brother would have loved it from the moment he set eyes on it.

"_You wanna hustle pool, Sammy, pick a place where they've got more to lose by callin' the cops than you'll ever take from 'em."_

"Dammit, man, where are you?"

Sam straightened, raking his eyes over the surrounding buildings, hoping to find something, _anything _that might offer a clue as to his wayward brother's location.

There was nothing. The taller facades loomed over him, glass blank and dark where it wasn't boarded up. Most were office blocks, vacant signs peeling away from the doors, locked behind heavy steel grilles that were rusted shut.

Sighing, he scrubbed a hand through already dishevelled hair, prickles of unease chasing each other down his spine. Turning back to the bar, eyes adjusting to the gloom, his breath caught as he glimpsed a familiar gleam of chrome hulking in the shadows at the far edge of the parking lot. Tucked into the corner formed by a low wall and the neighbouring office sat the Impala, sleek and dark. A grin split his face at the sight. He closed his eyes for a second; drunk on relief as he broke into a trot across the empty lot, certain he'd find his brother, sprawled out on the backseat with the mother of all hangovers.

Halfway there, he stumbled, heart dropping to his stomach like a rock as he got a

clearer look at the car.

"No. Oh no."

Jagged edges glittered at him, broken glass shattering under his shoes as he staggered to a halt, the driver's window nothing more than a razor-toothed maw gaping at him, the hood dented, the windscreen above it cracked in a starburst.

His hand trembled as it brushed over the wing, the world suddenly tilting around him. He knew the backseat would be empty, knew there was no way his brother would willingly leave his baby, their _home _in this sorry state.

Sam leant heavily on against the door, stomach churning, acid searing his throat, boiling up as he saw something dark running along the cracks in the windshield.

Blood.

He twisted aside, bent double, one hand clutching at his stomach, the other fisted hard against the cold metal as if he could never let go. Heaving dryly, he spat out the foul taste and finally straightened, head spinning as he swiped his hand across his mouth, reaching in through the broken window to unlock the door. He thought his heart would just give up and break as he felt the familiar groan shiver through the handle when he swung it open, breath hitching in a dry sob as he slipped behind the wheel.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, hefted the slight weight in his hand uncertainly.

_No. If he could answer, he would have called._

But he didn't stop his fingers from slipping the cover open, couldn't stop them dialling the number from memory, his stomach somersaulting as he listened to the ring tone buzz once, twice, three times. He pressed the phone against his ear, desperate hope making his fingers tingle, but he dropped it as if it burned him/delete as he heard the familiar, curt order play out.

_This is Dean. Leave a message._

Sam stared at the phone on the seat beside him, barely seeing it through the tears stinging his bloodshot, weary eyes. He waited for it to disconnect automatically, finally dragging his arm across his brow as the tiny screen went dark.

Ducking under the steering column, he pried at the cover, one fingernail tearing away before it finally came loose and clattered to the floor of the foot well. Grabbing it, he lifted it carefully, placed it gently on the seat next to him and turned back to the exposed wires, yanking them free and pulling a small knife from the sheath in his boot. He paused, blade tight against one, biting his lip.

_I'm sorry, Dean. But I gotta find you, and I gotta be mobile to do it. I'm sorry._

He closed his eyes as he sliced through the wires, fingers trembling as he fought down the memory of his brother's voice beside him, coaching him patiently. _If you can 'wire her with your eyes closed, Sammy, you can do any car. _ He worked by touch, the sharp ends of the cut wires prickling his skin, the edge of his blade skimming a line of dark red across the pad of his thumb as he stripped the plastic away. The spark as he struck the exposed copper together was bright against his eyelids and he flinched, tapped the wires against each other again and again until the engine grumbled to life, the radio blaring at him. His hand shot out before he'd even opened his eyes, stopped short an inch from the dial as he froze, breath locked in his chest, vision blurring.

He sat there for a long moment, listening, trapped, unable to move, to even breathe until the last bars of the song died away. The stale air escaped him in a hot, shaking rush and he left the radio as it was, turned back to the wheel and shoved the car into drive, leaving a long strip of rubber behind as he peeled away.

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Waterbury, Connecticut**

**August 8****th****, 1996**

He stood in the dark, elbows propped on the top of the open door, steadying the binoculars glued to his eyes. Through the lenses, John watched the bar intently, the car park quiet, mostly full of battered pick-ups and rusting muscle cars. He deliberately ignored the contrast between those sad, tired relics and the Impala, waiting sleek and dark beside him. A part of him ached to see them in their glory days, the part that looked back fondly on long days spent buried under the hood, Dean beside him and he longed for nothing more than the feeling of grease and oil under his nails instead of blood and ash.

Shrugging his shoulders irritably, he shook off the feeling of nostalgia and focussed again on the pack of bikes parked in the shadows at the edge of the lot. A jacket slung across the back of one seat had been like a flag, catching his attention as he drove past the bar a half-hour ago, the logo folded and partially obscured. He'd seen just enough to make his heart thump victoriously in his chest as he cruised on down the road, swinging up into the forested hills above the town and working his way through them to his current vantage point, hidden between two wilting beech trees, knee deep in drifts of last years dead leaves that crunched underfoot.

_The Immortals_

Scrawled with flair above a death's head with an ironic grin, the signature was unmistakeably the one described by the people he'd interviewed.

He could see the jacket now, just, the high-powered binoculars straining to pick up the logo in the shadows. Letting the focus wander back across the parking lot, he froze as he saw the bar door open, a group of a dozenfigures striding confidently out of the brightly lit room, the arrogant swagger in their stride matching their bikes perfectly. He grinned, baring his teeth unconsciously in a feral snarl as he pinned the leader of the gang in the centre of his view. The revenant swung one leg over the saddle of his bike - an old, immaculate Indian, the hunter noted – then paused, seeming to sniff at the air.

John didn't move, felt sure his blood had turned to shattered ice, carving through his veins with every laboured pump of his heart as the dead man turned his head slowly, staring back through the distance between them.

_Can't see me. No way he can see me…_

The mantra echoed in his head unconvincingly but he couldn't stop the shudder that crawled down his spine.

The revenant cocked his head, pale blue eyes glittering in the night as he stared at the hill. John saw the charisma in that stare, the indefinable certainty the dead-man carried with him; as if, just by seeing him, you knew this was a man who had been somewhere most never even dreamed of, and had brought a part of that place back with him when he returned.

He shrugged a little, turned away and John felt the breath whoosh out of his lungs in a dizzying rush as he heard the distant sound of the engines snarl into life, watched as the revenant gathered his followers with a single, sweeping glance. They roared out of the parking lot, whooping and yelling and the hunter scrambled back through the scrub, trying to keep his binoculars trained on the bikes as he half-crawled to the Impala, waiting a few metres away. He slipped behind the wheel and tossing the binoculars to the seat beside him, twisting the key in the ignition, revelling in the powerful thrum of the engine.

His knuckles turned white around the steering wheel as he barrelled down the rough road, the wide muscle car barely squeezing between the high banks of the cutting, but he didn't dare slow down until he bounced onto metalled road again, roaring through the edge of the town and swinging onto the road the bikers had just departed on. Then he eased back on the gas and let the road unwind before him, searching the night ahead for the roving crimson galaxy of their lights.

He yawned once, shook himself and frowned, reaching forward to the radio. He still hadn't changed the tape in the deck, would never tell his boys that he never did change it when he had to leave them, as if playing his son's music over and over and over again was some kind of charm to keep them all safe until he got back.

He smiled a little, tapped out the beat against the wheel, not caring that he was hopelessly out of time, imagining Dean belting out his alternate versions to the lyrics, leaving Sammy helpless with laughter in the back seat. A sigh surprised him and his eyes flicked over to the dark mirror before he could stop them. The bearded face staring back at him was lined, creased with melancholy as he realised, as he always did, just how much he missed his sons.

A red glow ahead dragged the sad, rueful smile from his lips, turning his eyes hard and cold as they focussed on the cluster of lights a half-mile down the road. They flared suddenly, brake lights augmenting the running lights of the bikes and he let the car drop back a little more, until he could only just see them slow further and turn.

"Crap," he muttered, knowing suddenly he wasn't the only hunter tonight. His foot pressed down hard on the gas again and he peered down the turning the revenants had taken, heart turning to ice as he saw that it was a driveway, twisting up to a large farmhouse.

One hand darted down to the gun tucked between the seat and the door and he dragged it up, snapping out the magazine and checking the feel of the rounds inside by touch alone. The cool iron steadied the pounding in his chest, eased the dizzying rush of adrenaline and he pulled off the road into a small lay-by, killing the engine and swinging out of the car with quick grace. Wrenching open the trunk, he loaded up another pistol with the consecrated iron that would at least slow the dead men down, the iron disrupting the hold their spirits had on their bodies, the blessing interfering with the unholy spell wrought to raise them from their graves.

One pistol was tucked into his waistband, snug against his spine, the other clutched loosely in his hand as he buckled his machete in its sheath around his waist and dumped a large bag of salt into a deep pocket. One quick tap at his ankle to reassure himself that the knife he always carried was where it should be and he turned, slamming the trunk and locking it, breaking into a quick trot as he headed into the woods.

Following the road, he slowed as he saw the lights of the house, and then broke into a

dead sprint when a scream ripped through the night. He didn't spare a breath for the curses flowing non-stop in his head, just hurdled the last of the scrub, bursting out onto the lawn and tearing across the neat grass to the porch, slamming through the shattered door. He slid to a halt, gun held in rock steady hands, leading his sight as he swept the hallway, the eerie silence and stillness making his hackles rise.

_Too late._

John shook his head, refusing to entertain the thought though his nose twitched as he caught a thick, coppery scent on the air. Then engines roared outside, sputtering and snarling to life, shattering the obscene silence.

"Fuck!" he yelled, spinning back to the door and glaring after the bikes, automatically counting them as they peeled away down the drive out of sight, stomach twisting in indecision as he saw three bikes separate, turn right back down the road they'd come from earlier, a cold premonition clenching through his nerves.

…_eight, nine, ten… ten?_

The uncertainty left him, the foreboding pushed aside in favour of the greater, more immediate threat. His fingers tightened around the grip of the pistol and he turned back to the house, creeping across the heavy carpet and up the stairs, his back barely brushing the wall. The metallic smell grew stronger the higher he climbed and he scowled, lips curling in disgust as he saw the first drips of blood plopping down from the top step to splash onto the next. His boots squelched in the saturated carpet and his stomach turned once, ruthlessly ignored for the moment, forgotten the instant he heard a low snigger rise from behind the door at the top of the stairs. He leant forward, put one eye to the crack and peered into the charnel house that had once been a bedroom.

Two figures knelt on the king-size bed in the middle of the room, oblivious to his glare and approach as he slipped silently through the door. The gun thundered in his hand, the shots finding their cold, dead hearts and knocking them both flying to twitch and shudder on the floor, revealing the gory mess they'd been feasting on. John stared at it, felt his hands drop, the gun dangling loosely from his fingers. Every instinct

screamed at him to finish the job but he couldn't move, couldn't tear his eyes away from the ruin of lives, spread out before him, teeth marks visible in the bone and shredded flesh.

A coughing grunt broke the hold the horror had on him and he turned his gaze once more on the revenants, pumping round after round into them as they screamed and flailed and jerked under the onslaught, finally lying still as the chamber clicked emptily again and again. He swiped a trembling hand across his damp cheeks, sniffing as he drew the machete free from its sheath but he snarled as he swung the blade down and grinned horribly as their heads rolled free.

He never looked back at the bed as he pulled the knife from his ankle sheath and sliced his way down to the ruin of their silent hearts, ripping them free and tossing them into an oozing, dead heap, sprinkling them with salt and lighter fluid. He choked a little on the foul smoke that rose from them as they burned, watched until all that was left was ashes, the light of the greedy fire sparkling from the tears in his eyes, the tears that he refused to let fall.

Then he turned, his stare as empty as that of the long-dead on the floor and dowsed the whole room with the last of the salt and lighter fluid. The flames were licking up towards the ceiling as he walked steadily, calmly back down the stairs. By the time the Impala screamed past the end of the drive, the fire raged fiercely into the night, sealing the blinding fury that burned into him and seared the anger and hate a little deeper into his heart.


	3. Touch The Other Side

_**Touch the Other Side**_

_Fear and panic in the air,_

_I want to be free,_

_From desolation and despair._

_And I feel like everything I sow,_

_Has been swept away._

_Well, I refuse to let you go._

**~~HoC~~**

**Litchfield, Maine**

**August 20th, 1996**

He felt the late sun slowly cool to dusk against his skin and listened to the leaves crunching under his feet, as his brother chattered on about Math and the book they'd been reading in Lit class and Katy Brewster who sat beside him in Biology and how he hoped they'd be assigned as lab partners 'cause even Dean would like her, he'd think she was _hot..._

The teen trailed off into silence, the steady sound of his footsteps stilling and Dean looked up, meeting his brother's gaze as Sam chewed at one corner of his lip. The shadow of a branch fell across his face, five long, twisted fingers slicing it diagonally left temple to the right corner of his mouth and Dean pushed aside a shiver as he remembered a cowled figure crouching over the kid, years ago, grey skin and bone stretched tight around his jaw.

"What is it, Sammy?"

There was nothing in his voice, none of the chill that had been making itself at home along his spine for the last two days. It didn't matter. He knew Sam had felt it too, the kids chatter and cheer just a little too forced, too bright. Brittle.

"Dean..."

He trailed off again, watched the wariness that never truly left his brother's stance sweep constantly around them, gauging, assessing everything. Dean gave a kind of half-shrug at him as Sam struggled to put into words the fear rippling through his guts.

"Is it... are we..."

"Its fine, Sammy. Come on, let's get home before it gets dark, huh?"

Sam scoffed, almost willing to believe the lie, the truth burned into his world five Christmas' ago never quite letting him anymore. He hadn't felt completely safe since, had never been so glad for the insistence on twin bed rooms that used to annoy him so much.

But he fell into step alongside his brother again, letting himself get lost for a while in the sprays of copper and gold around his feet as he kicked through last years autumn.

Dean grinned as Sam marched beside him, booting leaves almost as high as his head, revelling in the simplicity of his brother's pleasure in the colour and sound. It faded as the shiver in his spine woke up again, twisting up and down, spreading long fingers out into his guts and making his stomach churn.

He knew the feeling, not well, just enough to recognise it.

_Prey._

Something was hunting them.

He sighed in relief as he saw the now-familiar, sagging roof come into view through the trees. The house was old, battered by years and storms, left to crumble into the forest alone. It was large enough to distract his brother from the dangers - both supernatural and official - of their staying here, keeping his spare time filled with exploring the rooms that seemed to be squashed impossibly into the building. Doors that didn't go anywhere, rooms he couldn't find a way into, corridors that twisted back on themselves in a maze that nearly had Dean sending him out with a ball of string or a pocket full of breadcrumbs.

The roof sagged, more than a few tiles missing, windows mostly smashed or bordered up with rotting chipboard, but he'd known as soon as he'd found the tiny square marked on the old town map, that it was perfect. That he could keep them safe here, tucked away from the town and the prying eyes of concerned teachers and parents.

Now he wondered if the isolation was such a good thing after all.

Beside him, sensing his hesitation somehow, no matter how much he tried to keep it suppressed, Sam slowed. Dean took a long, slow breath, the early autumn chill settling into him as he plastered a confident smirk on his face.

"C'mon runt," he ordered and gave his brother a gentle shove in the shoulder to get him moving. Sam stumbled a little, turned to glare at Dean and felt his jaw drop, his eyes opening painfully wide as a pale figure rose up behind his brother, piercing blue-grey eyes locked onto his as a hand drew back, knotted into a tight, rock-hard fist. The buckle on the end of the leather strap dangling from the wrist of the leather jacket caught the light, sent it flashing into Sam's eyes, making him blink.

He almost missed his brother's instinctive movement as Dean saw his eyes widen and threw himself forward, crashing into the younger boy and sending them both flying. Sam landed on his back in the leaves, his brother sprawling over him, the weight of Dean's body forcing the air of him as he heard something snarl above them.

It sounded like a tiger he'd once seen in a zoo, enraged by the bars that caged it, the feral sound reaching down into him and dragging atavistic fear through his veins. He couldn't help the terrified whimper that escaped him as he clutched convulsively at his brother's jacket.

"Stay down, Sammy," Dean growled, tugging free and surging to his feet, leaving Sam behind on the ground to watch him turn the motion into a punch that rocked the biker back a step. The teen shivered; the blow should have laid the stranger out in one go, instead he just shook his head, cocked an eyebrow and grinned. Sam heard Dean mutter a surprised curse and scrunched himself as small as he could as the older boy took a few steps back to stand guard protectively over him.

The biker's eyes snapped back to Sam and he froze, hypnotised by the power in them. He heard more footsteps surround them, listened in horror to the sound of fists hitting flesh, the grunts and gasps of pain but couldn't tear his gaze away from the cold ice pinning him down to the wet leaves.

Something crashed down heavily onto his legs, jolting him, breaking the stare and he flinched back, gasping for breath as he scrabbled wildly at the weight, trying to shove it off him. His heart somersaulted as his fingers brushed familiar leather, short hair, and he pawed frantically at the body, rolling Dean over, cradling his brother's bloodied head in his lap as rough hands came down to grab viciously at his shoulders.

"No! Get off me!" he yelled, locking his fingers in his brother's jacket. A cold shadow fell over him, fingers wrapping around his arm again and he squirmed away. He freed one hand to flail at them, his other wiping gently at the tears that splashed onto his brother's face, smearing them through the blood trickling steadily from his brow.

"Dean, wake up!" he cried as he was grabbed yet again, pulled away from the unconscious body, wincing as Dean's head thudded back to the earth, kicking and scratching at the hands that lifted him, carried him so easily.

"Dean!"

The biker grabbed his jaw, too tight, wrenching his head back and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, terrified of that hypnotic serpent's stare. He heard a low chuckle as his head was suddenly released, his mind struggling to understand the sudden flash of humanity in the sound, then his eyes snapped open as a strangled groan cut through the dark.

"Get off him!" he yelled, kicking harder, his heels connecting with the shins of the man holding him as he watched the first stranger lean harder into the boot cutting off his brother's air. Dean batted weakly at his leg and Sam could see his eyes rolling beneath his still-closed lids, knew his brother wasn't fully aware yet.

"Leave him the hell alone!"

"Then be still."

Sam froze instantly, gasping in relief as the biker lifted his foot and Dean rolled away from him, pushing himself up onto one elbow, coughing hoarsely, clutching at his bruised throat. His eyelids fluttered, his unfocussed stare rolling through the trees before coming to rest blearily on Sam. He started to push himself to his feet, arms visibly trembling, swaying on his hands and knees and Sam watched in horror as the first stranger stepped closer and sent a steel-trimmed boot crashing into the side of Dean's ribs.

The sight of his big brother slamming like a broken rag doll into the gnarled roots of an ancient beech tree sent Sam into an uncontrollable frenzy. He yelled incoherently, squirmed and kicked with every muscle he had, every bit of training he'd had in the last four years not enough to overcome the man holding him. His captor slammed a heavy blow into his jaw and his last sight before blacking out was his brother hauled effortlessly from the ground, head lolling loosely onto his chest, snapping back again from the fist that viciously back-handed him and falling bonelessly back to the ground. His vision blurred as he watched Dean rolling twice with the force of the blow, finally lying still in the dead leaves, blood flowing freely down his broken skin to darken them.

Then the world slipped away from his failing hold and he fell helplessly into the dark.

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Mustang, Nevada**

**October 25th, 2008**

The engine growled, stuttered once, then shivered into silence. Sam sank back in the seat, slouching his tall frame down and leaning into the door, rolling his pounding head until his brow was pressed against the cool glass. He watched the misty rain form droplets on the window, rolling slowly down, tracing the reflection of his cheek before disappearing into the fog each breath made.

He knew he was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot, glaring tiredly out at the world from deep hollows, framed with creases, lashes brushing the shadows under them with every weary blink.

The plastic taped to the other window crackled a little, the edges of the breeze that stirred it tickling his skin, sending a shiver coursing through him. He sighed, watched the cloud on the glass spread to cover his reflection and closed his eyes before it could dissipate again.

"Dammit, Dean."

Sam lifted a hand and rubbed at his eyes, fingers and thumb coming together to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly. He ached, a dull, sullen burn that flitted along every nerve and wound through every muscle and bone in his body, born of too much worry, too much fear for too damn long.

Adrenaline had long since faded, the surge of hope that accompanied every ring of his phone drained away as friend after friend, every name in his father's journal returned his increasingly frantic calls with no answers.

He sighed again, breath hitching, almost a sob as his throat tightened. Adrenaline might have been in short supply, but the tears seemed to flow from a bottomless well, prickling the backs of his eyes whenever he stopped moving.

So he moved again, forced himself to shove open the door, the steady rumble of sound from the bar washing over him as he clambered stiffly out. He stood beside the car for a moment, the door pressing against his side. His eyes caught the reflection of the neon sign in the scattered glass that lay in the corner of the parking lot by the low, lime green wall, a thin puddle of water surrounding the crystalline glitter with an oily sheen.

_Dean'll be so pissed._

The thought was automatic, comforting for the briefest of moments when he could almost feel his brother's ire at the damage to his baby, could almost hear the barely restrained fury in Dean's voice as he chastised Sam for not getting the smashed window, cracked screen and dented hood repaired immediately. Then the reality came crashing back in on him and he sagged against the door, throat tightening painfully, his chest constricting and his stomach churning under the combined onslaught of his worry, fear and utter exhaustion from the long day of fruitless searching.

He suddenly felt horribly, crushingly alone, as if the entire city around him was empty, populated only by figments of his nightmares. The bar door swung open, releasing the eerie strains of a familiar song into the dark and he nearly cringed back from it, the memory of his brother tunelessly mimicking the wailing guitars with a grin splitting his face in two as mile after mile of desolate countryside blurred past, disorienting him.

_Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true... _

He shook off the memory as the voice struck a chord with the turmoil that had been twisting through him all day, swiped a hand roughly across his face, smearing away the new tears he hadn't even realised he was shedding.

Sucking in a deep breath, fresh resolve steeling him, Sam straightened, shut the car door and strode across the parking lot to the bar. The haze of smoke stung his eyes as soon as he pushed through the door and he blinked quickly, his gaze sweeping around the room. It was late enough for it to be mostly empty, the Sunday night crowd of die-hard drinkers barely taking up a third of the tables scattered across the worn floor.

Only the bartender looked up at his entrance and Sam crossed quickly to the long, scarred bar, leaning both elbows on it, trying to hide the slight shake in his hands. He was exhausted, running on empty, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't have even if he'd been able.

_Not until I've got him back. Not until he's safe._

"What can I get you?"

He mustered up a false smile from somewhere, digging deep in his pocket for his wallet.

"Whatever's on tap."

The bartender nodded, pulling a clean glass from the rack overhead and eyeing the hunter as it slowly filled. Setting it down with a quiet _clunk _he took the bills and turned back to the till behind the bar.

"You passing through?"

"Sort of. Why?"

Sam didn't miss the edge in the man's voice, something more than just idle curiosity giving the innocuous query a sting of warning that set his nerves on edge.

"Don't seem the type for this place is all."

"Well, I'm looking for someone," Sam replied, voice turning to ice as he saw the older man hesitate, almost flinch. "Would've come in about ten, last night. Drove the '67 Chevy smashed up in the parking lot."

The bartender froze, his hand hovering over Sam's, the change still held in it. Neither man moved for a long moment as the hunter watched his reaction. He stared the barman down, noting the hint of shame in the older man's gaze as he turned away his head and poured the coins into Sam's outstretched palm.

"We get a lot of someone's here, son. Some get found, some don't want to be. Maybe you should just move on."

"I can't."

He said it quietly, a simple statement of fact, but let the steel his brother had etched into his heart over the years fuel the fire in it and the bartender flinched a little.

"I gotta find him."

"Your friend's long gone."

"He's my brother. He wouldn't leave. Someone took him."

Finally, the bartender looked up, met his eyes again.

"I'm sorry," he said, gaze remote and cold again, voice quiet. "I can't help you."

Sam stared at him, slowly absorbing the fear in the older man's eyes. He nodded once, took a long gulp of his untouched beer and pushed away from the bar. He was almost halfway across the room before he felt the tears burning his eyes, one hand reaching out for the door before his breath caught as the bartender called after him, "There was a girl. Your brother was getting pretty friendly with her before... some guys came in. Bikers. Seemed to think they knew your brother but he said he didn't recognise them when they asked him. Her name's Claire Bailey. Lives local."

Sam turned back, fury raging in his veins.

"You won't help me, but you'll..."

The bartender ducked his head, shrugged a little and whispered so quietly Sam barely heard it.

"I didn't see enough to be sure, there must've been a half-dozen of them. Bikers maybe, but there was something... something _off _about them. Claire was closer. She might have seen more."

Sam didn't move for a moment, sure he would start swinging if he took one step towards the man and not at all sure he would be able to stop himself. But the bartender glanced up at him and the utter _terror _presentin his eyes, the desperate plea for Sam to say what the older man knew he had seen wasn't true, drained the fury and disgust out of him in a single breath.

He turned and stalked out through the door, fists knotted so tightly they shook as he crossed the parking lot. It spread through his arms, until he was shivering uncontrollably by the time he reached the Impala and he stumbled, caught himself against it with one hand, leaning over and choking on the acid surging up his throat. He spat out bile and the single mouthful of beer he'd swallowed, fumbling blindly at the car door and dragging it open, sagged shakily into the seat.

Dragging the back of his sleeve over his mouth he grimaced, leaning over the back of the seat and pawing through the pile of blankets and junk that had accumulated there until he dug out a water bottle. He spun the cap off, sipped at the stale water, rinsing his mouth as he leant back into the seat with a weary sigh, feeling the tremors slowly subside. Sliding down in the seat he scrubbed a hand through his hair, pressing his fingertips into his scalp and tipping his head back.

He sat there, exhausted, feeling the empty space around him grow bigger, colder with every breath he took. The sounds of the city outside were muted, as if they were a hundred miles away and he felt the same crushing loneliness that he had before, weighing down on him until he thought he could hear his bones buckling under it, feel himself crumbling into the ground.

"God," he whispered, part prayer, part curse, part desperate plea as he slid down in the seat, wrapping his arms around himself as he shivered.

His phone rang, buzzing loudly in his pocket, making him start, scrabbling frantically at his jacket.

"Dean?"

His breathless query was met with a beat of silence, a second in which his heart stumbled to a halt, broke into triple time and froze solid again as his mind threw up scene after scene of his brother lying somewhere, broken and bleeding, unable to speak...

"Sam?"

He almost wept at the gruff voice.

"Bobby. Hey, uh..."

"Well, I was calling to find out if the pair of you've got a gig lined up, but what's that brother of yours gone and done now?"

Sam flattened his fingers across his lips, trying to stifle the sobs that fluttered out past them.

"H-he... I can't... I can't find him, Bobby."

"Hell. Where are you, Sam?"

He sighed, suddenly realising his lips had curled into something close to a smile, weak and trembling but there as the crushing loneliness faded beneath the sound of the older man's concern.

"Nevada. We're in Mustang, Nevada."

Not for one minute did he let himself consider the thought that he might be the only Winchester left in Mustang now.

"You two were lookin' for that spirit?"

Sam nodded wearily, trying to remember the hunt they'd only started the day before.

"Yeah. But we just got here."

"Okay," Bobby mumbled into the phone and Sam listened to him moving through the house, imagined him stuffing clothes and weapons into a bag. "I'm headin' out now. Should be there sometime tomorrow night. You just hold on, okay? We'll find him."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Sam, get some rest, okay? You sound like crap."

With that, the phone went dead and he sighed out a chuckle, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. He let his head rest against the window for a moment, feeling the cold glass soothe the pounding behind his eyes again, whispering Bobby's words to himself, to the empty space beside him.

"Hold on. I'm coming, Dean. Just hold on."

_~~HoC~~_

Petersburg, Pennsylvania

21st August, 1996

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, the lingering scent of smoke and roasting meat heavy in his mind as the miles fell away behind. For the thousandth time, he forced his hands to relax, pushed the sickness down again, pulling his attention back to the present and the music thundering through the car, the small scattering of brake lights tauntingly close ahead.

He knew that they knew he was on their trail, knew he'd spooked them into flight when he'd killed the fifth revenant two days ago, finding him - _it_ alone in the deserted barn the rest of the Immortals had left just hours earlier. He'd watched them all night, seen them drink and fight among themselves, cold worry worming through his guts every time he thought of the three revenants who'd separated from the rest at the farmhouse, six days ago.

The gang's loose rules worked in his favour, the un-dead creatures often lingering behind the rest singly or in pairs, letting him pick them off safely. He knew he didn't have a chance of taking any more than two revenants at once, the bruises and cuts scattered over his body testament enough to the danger the supernaturally strong and quick creatures posed. But he couldn't shake the feeling of time running out, slipping through his fingers like water, his mind constantly fading back to dwell upon the three revenants who'd split from the group, retracing his path nearly a week ago.

So now he followed them openly, not bothering to try and hide his presence or intent. They knew he was coming, and his blood ran fast and hot with the thrill of the chase, of the knowledge he had them on the run.

He pressed his foot harder on the gas, squinted a little through the fall mists as the lights ahead flared brighter, shifting behind each other as the posse lined up for a turn. He grinned, a feral, nasty snarl, baring his teeth in the mirror, suddenly resolve to finish the hunt tonight shivering a frission of ice down his spine. The last four revenants in front of him swung onto a small road, moments later John flashed past the sign for _Red Creek - 2 miles_ and followed them onto the narrow country road, tyres squealing a little as he took the turn too fast.

The lights ahead brightened again, gleaming balefully through the low fog. He knew they would follow the same pattern they had for the last week, driven by gut-deep instinct to find a deserted house or farm to hole up in. He'd seen it so many times in so many creatures; vampires, werewolves, rawheads and wendigos - anything that lurked in the shadows. They were drawn to people, to the living but forever isolated from what they had once been, left watching greedily from the edges of the dark.

Up ahead he saw an old church and pulled over to the side of the road, killing the engine. The chain around the gates was no obstacle to the revenants. One kicked down the stand on its bike, leaving the engine running as it swung off the saddle and reached out, taking hold of the chain. With a single heave, it snapped the steel links, broad shoulders barely straining beneath its leather jacket. Casting aside the twisted, buckled metal, the dead man gestured its companions through with a mocking bow, straightening and casting a glance back along the road, staring straight at the hunter and grinning jovially, green eyes sparkling with impossible life. John sneered at him, knowing the revenant couldn't possibly see him, and waited in the dark for them to enter the ancient building.

He eyed the structure, keen stare picking out the razor-wire tangled along the boundary wall, the slates missing from the steep roof. The windows began to flicker then glow as the gang lit fires inside, trying to drive away the chill that would never leave them. The shattered glass slowly transformed into a shade of its former glory, saints and angels watching over both the un-dead and the hunter alike with calm, benevolent smiles.

_Angels are watching over you..._

The sudden whisper in his ear startled him and he almost turned to the empty seat beside, only the instant recognition of his dead wife's murmur stilling the motion. Instead, he blinked away the sudden tears in his eyes, allowed himself one short moment of wishing for what had never been.

_No, Mary. There were never angels watching over any of us._

He sighed, the sound trembling and turning to fog in the cold air, swirling around his arm as he scrubbed a hand across his mouth, hesitating to let his lips brush the narrow, simple band on his finger in a brief kiss.

Then he slipped silently from the car, snatching the duffle full of guns and cans of salt and gas that he'd never bothered to put back in the trunk. He turned to the church, trotting carefully, silently around the perimeter wall, eyeing its forbidding height and the razor-wire glittering impartially at him from the top.

He'd almost completed a full circuit of the grounds before he found what he was looking for, a place where the wire sagged free of the pins that held the vicious loops in place. He shrugged out of his long coat, slinging it around his neck as he swarmed up the wall, the crumbling brickwork offering plenty of holds. He tossed the thick canvas coat over the wire, feeling the barbs dig into his skin through it as he swung over the top and resigned himself to the loss of yet another good coat. He dropped to the ground on the other side, landing in a crouch, knees groaning in protest at the pressure, dipping one hand into the duffle to pull out a shotgun in a quick, easy motion.

He held himself still for a moment, watching the church, listening to the low whisper of voices laughing, finally rising and zig-zagging across the grounds, the fog thicker inside the churchyard, shrouding him with its chilly, clammy touch. The stone of the building was cold and rough against his back as he pressed up against it, scraping at the base of his neck as he slipped along it to the vestry door. He reached out a hand, suppressed a shiver at the icy metal of the handle and turned it slowly, swinging the thick, age-blackened wood open a fraction, crouching low and putting an eye to the thin gap.

The small room inside was dark, almost lost in shadows, just the faintest flickering of light darting beneath the door between the vestry and the main hall of the church. The voices were louder, an indistinguishable murmur now, drowning out the low creak that made him freeze as he eased the door further open. His boots rolled silently across the threshold, the ancient sanctity of the building settling over his shoulders like a cloak, as if it welcomed the man come to rid it of the evil desecrating it.

Light flickered across his face as he crept up to the inside door, shifting the shotgun in his hand as he took a slow, steadying breath. Then he slammed his shoulder into the door, the thick wood crashing open and rebounding with a loud bang from the stone wall. He was already through it, running full out, ducked low, the shotgun thundering, hot against his skin, the burn of gunpowder stinging his hands as he fired again and again, working the Mossberg's pump-action furiously.

The revenants, lounging around a large fire in the middle of the nave, barely had time to react, the last of them just managing to find his feet and leap through the flames licking at the corpse of the first of the long-dead men to fall to the hunter's shots. He disappeared behind the glare and John ducked instinctively, threw himself between two of the pews, landing hard with a grunt as the breath was knocked out of him. He lay still for a second, not knowing what sort of weapon the biker could be carrying, the element of surprise that had carried him this far lost now.

Breathless, he grinned a little, honestly surprised that his plan had held together as long as it had. The first revenant he'd hit was out of the equation now, the effects of the blessed iron and the fire enough to destroy it, although he knew it could potentially be raised again. The other two had fallen away from the cleansing fire, and already he could hear soft groans as they stirred, slowly shaking off the effects of the rounds.

"You're good, hunter."

He almost jumped at the low voice, cursing himself for losing sight of the more dangerous threat. The revenant that had dodged his last shot was the huge man who had ripped the chain on the gates apart as if it was paper, the man who'd turned and scanned the night where John waited. Now, he sounded calm, almost amused as he baited the Winchester.

"Glad you think so!" John called back, trusting that the acoustics of the old building would distort the sound of his voice enough to disguise his location as he began to worm his way back along the floor between the pews.

"We're better," came the mocking reply, rich with laughter and John smiled.

"Yeah? Didn't look that way to me when I burnt the last five of you. Better make that six now, I guess."

"A few more notches for your rifle, right? That what they were to you?"

John sneered.

"No. They're just a few more evil sons-of-bitches who aren't going to kill anyone else again."

There was a long pause, broken only by low scuffles and he wished he could risk peering over the backs of the long pews, see if they were the downed revenants moving or the other dead man working his way towards the hunter. The confusing echoes he'd thanked moments before stirred intense irritation in him now as they blurred the sounds together and prevented him from working out exactly where they came from.

"What's your name, hunter?"

He paused, raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"You want introductions? Now?"

"Only seems polite, seeing as I'll be killing you soon."

"Or the other way round," he snarled back.

"True. William. William Angus."

The hunter hesitated a moment longer, thrown by the veneer of civility in the dead man's friendly voice.

"John Winchester."

"I'd say nice to meet you, John, but given the circumstances..."

John laughed, caught himself and shook his head, squirming a little further back until one boot hit the support at the end of the bench. Slowly, he drew his body into a crouch, shrugging out of his shirt, shivering a little in his t-shirt as he bundled the fabric up and lifted it carefully up over the back of the pew.

It exploded in a burst of plaid scraps and he snatched his hand back down, shaking his stinging fingers a little.

"Neat trick, John. Think it'll be enough against three of us?"

"Oh, I've got plenty more to deal with any of you sons-of-bitches."

He heard a low, dry chuckle and wondered at his eldest son's apparent ability to surface in him at the most inappropriate moments.

"Think you've got enough to save your boys?"

John froze, the sudden malice in the deep voice cutting deep into him.

"What the hell are you taking about?" he forced out through teeth gritted together, jaw clenched tight to keep the sudden, terrified, furious screams silent.

"I know you saw them, John, back in Conneticut."

The three bikes peeling away, down his back trail. His blood ran cold, ice shivering through his veins.

"They found them, your two boys. Dean and little Sammy. Think you can get back in time?"

His vision went away, turned black, his ears deafened by the sudden pounding of his heart as he surged up with a roar, the shotgun bucking in his hand again, the revenant staggering back with a surprised expression on his face as the double-barrelled blast tore a fist-sized hole in his torso.


	4. Hollow Heroes

_**A/N: Hope you enjoy! And if you do, go on and hit that li'l button at the bottom... :) **_

_Hollow Heroes_

_Show me how it ends, _

_it's alright_

_Show me how defenceless you really are,_

_satisfied and empty inside.._

**Mustang, Nevada,**

**October 27th, 2008**

The hammering on the door jolted him out of a fitful sleep, snatching him away from restless dreams of running through empty streets, following a trail of blood that never seemed to end.

Sam sat up with a start, blinking in the bright light streaming through the window, blankets twisted around his waist as he reached for the knife tucked beneath the pillow. The cushion fell to the floor with a soft thump, his fingers closing around the hilt of the blade, then as he heard the deep, gruff voice calling his name on the other side of the door he let the knife go with a sigh as he untangled the blankets.

"'M comin'," he called; voice raspy from lack of sleep as he plucked his pillow from the floor and dropped it back on top of his brother's knife. He skirted the empty bed, still neatly made, only the pillow out of place where he'd moved it during the night to find the knife, finally beginning to understand the vulnerability that made his brother keep the vicious blade so close at hand.

He stumbled to the door, unlocking it and standing aside to let Bobby pass. The grizzled hunter stepped carefully over the salt line, reaching up to clasp his shoulder, peering into his face.

"You get any sleep, boy?"

Sam shrugged, unwilling to mention the hours he'd spent, sitting alone in the dark after he'd got back from the bar, staring at nothing before he'd finally drifted into nightmares. He'd woken after one of them, fighting for breath as he scrambled to the bathroom, heaving into the toilet, trying to forget the image of his brother's shattered, dead body as it followed him from the dream, digging his nails into his palms to drive away the feel of cold skin under his fingers as he searched in vain for a pulse. That was when he'd gone to the empty bed, staring down at it for a long time, finally taking Dean's knife from its usual resting place and carrying it carefully, almost reverently back to his own bed.

"Some."

"Yeah, I can tell. Here. I brought lunch."

He handed Sam a grease-spotted paper bag and the younger man grimaced at the scent of fried food wafting up from it.

"Eat it, son."

Resigned, knowing full well the older man could, and would force it down his throat, Sam turned to the set of cabinets in one corner of the room, pulling a glass from one and filling at the sink as he unpacked foam containers from the bag. He took a bite of burger, washing it down with a gulp of water and waiting for a moment while his stomach rumbled uncertainly. Bobby watched him as he silently settled into a chair, waited until half the meal was gone before he spoke.

"So, you wanna start from the beginning? Tell me what the hell happened?"

Sam cleared his throat, dropped his gaze to the table for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"We got into town day before yesterday, too late to do much about the hunt. I had some research lined up, we went through that for a while, then Dean decided he wanted a drink." He kept his eyes down, skittering over the remains of his meal, the floor, his feet, anywhere but at his friends face as he listened to his voice, cool, dispassionate, as if a stranger were telling the tale.

"He went to the bar on the edge of town, I stayed here, fell asleep on the laptop..." his breath caught, and he turned his stare to his hand, watched it curl into a fist against the memory of waking up alone in the empty room. "I woke up and he wasn't here. Didn't answer his phone, nothing. He'd called, just after midnight but he didn't leave a message. So I went to the bar, got a cab, and the Impala was there. She's... Bobby, she's..."

"I know. I saw."

"That's it. I asked at the bar, he said, the barman, he said there were some guys. Biker's, he thought." Sam glanced up at Bobby's lined, worried face; dropped his gaze back down to his hands before continuing. "He said there was something wrong about them, didn't say who they were, just that he thought maybe they knew Dean. But he gave me a name, a local girl, Claire Bailey, said she was with Dean 'til 'they' came in."

"Ok. You been to see her yet?"

Sam shook his head, holding hard to that cold, impersonal shell that let him think of his brother as nothing more than a stranger, hating it but feeling his throat tighten and his chest constrict every time he dared let it slip.

"Good. Looking like that, you'd probably have scared her off. Go take a shower, I'll see what I can do about getting the car fixed up and get us an address for the girl."

Silently, Sam nodded, stumbling a little as he passed Bobby's chair on the way to the bathroom. The older man caught him, the phone book he'd started to search through thumping to the carpet as Bobby steadied him.

"Sam? You okay?"

"I don't... I can't... Bobby, what do I do?"

He couldn't finish the questions eating a hole away inside him, couldn't give them voice, so he stood instead, eyes cast down at his feet, fists clenched against the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

_What do I do if we can't find him? What do I do if I'm too late?_

"We find him, Sam. That's all."

The simple, utter certainty in the older man's voice did nothing to ease the storm churning in his guts and Sam pulled away, shuffling slowly, wearily to to the refuge of the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He leant in to the shower, twisting the taps, putting his back to the wall and sliding down through the steam that quickly filled the small room, propping his elbows on raised knees and dropping his head into his hands. His back shook against the tiles with each sob that heaved through him, choking him.

An hour later, Bobby's Dodge rumbled to a halt at the side of the road. For a moment, the muscle car sounded so much like the Impala, Sam could almost believe the whole nightmare was just that, just a figment of too much spicy food, maybe. But he felt the seat shift beneath him, felt the brush of air across his face as the door opened silently, and the illusion was shattered.

He followed the older man from the car, up the path to the front door of the low, weathered clapboard house. The faded blue paint flaked away under the older man's knuckles as he knocked politely, firmly at the door and they stood there in the shade of the porch, waiting. Sam fidgeted, his nerves twitching restlessly with the need to keep moving, to be doing something, _anything _until Bobby stepped deliberately on his foot. He sighed, stepped back and ran his gaze over the house, taking in the grimy windows, the wooden cladding rotting visibly in places.

The door opened and he almost shouldered his way in, only the grizzled hunter standing between him and the young woman hiding behind the warped door holding him back.

"Claire Bailey?" Bobby asked, polite and calm. She nodded reluctantly, shrinking back behind the thin wood a little more. Sam looked at her, saw the fear in her reddened eyes, the tearstains on her cheeks and spoke up before Bobby could give her the lie they'd prepared.

"You were at the bar last night, weren't you?"

He felt Bobby tense, kept his eyes on hers and his voice soft. She hesitated, nowhere left to hide, fear turning to outright terror.

"It's okay. We're not here to hurt you. The man you were with is my brother. He never came home after the bar. I'm just trying to find him."

She paled, visible even in the shadows and took a single, tiny step forward, spoke in a whisper.

"He got me away from them."

Sam smiled sadly.

"Sounds about right. His name's Dean. I'm Sam."

She moved forward again, pulling the door closed behind her and he saw a spark of the fire that would have drawn his brother to her like a moth to a flame.

"My Dad's home sick."

"That's fine. We can talk here," Bobby reassured her, shoving gently back at Sam, giving her space. She didn't speak, just twisted the hem of her over-sized shirt in her hands.

"What happened, Claire?"

"We were talking, having a drink," she blushed, and Sam almost wanted to laugh, knowing what his brother would have been saying. "Then they came in, and it was like he - Dean, like he just changed. Everyone did." She shivered, letting the shirt hem drop to hug her arms around herself, leaning against the pillar on the corner of the porch as if it was all that was holding her up. "They went up to the bar, and he watched them all the time. Then they came over and one of them asked Dean if they'd met before. He said no, but the other guy leant in, he..." she trailed off, gulping, one hand lifting to brush across her shoulder and Sam knew she'd felt it, knew the stranger had touched her and she'd felt whatever it was that had set his brother's instincts on edge.

"Your brother asked me to go get him another drink. He still had one, but I just wanted to get away from them. So I went. They talked a bit more, not long, then they left him alone and he went outside. I didn't see them leave, but the next time I looked they were gone too. I think... I think they followed him."

She looked up; finally meeting Sam's eyes squarely, shame colouring her cheeks as she paled.

"No-one saw them go. No-one wanted to catch their attention, so no-one looked, and I thought maybe they followed your brother outside. But there was no-one out there when I left."

Sam nodded.

"It's okay. If you'd stayed with him, if you'd seen them and tried to help, they would have hurt you."

"Did you notice anything about them? Anything that might help us find them?"

Claire chewed her lip for a moment, thinking about Bobby's question, then spoke almost defiantly.

"Yeah. They all wore jackets, like a gang, with the same picture on the back. It was a skull, really weird. And it said 'The Immortals' underneath."

Sam froze, the name stirring something far back in his memory, an image of an old house, slowly crumbling into the drifts of dead leaves around it, the feeling of a cold, cold hand grasping his jaw. He frowned, reaching after the fleeting impressions, feeling them slip through his fingers, desperate frustration making him curse under his breath.

He turned his attention back to Bobby and Claire, still talking quietly.

"...anything else happened lately? Anything weird, anyone go missing?" Bobby asked, gently teasing more information from the girl.

"Well, there was a kid on the other side of town. It was on the news this morning, he was snatched out of his bed last night. His name's Sam." She looked straight at him as she said it, both of them knowing it was no coincidence.

"Okay. Thank you, Claire. Be careful, alright? I don't think they'll come after you, but if they do, just run. Okay?"

She nodded, retreating into silence again as she watched them leave. Sam saw her, still standing on the corner of the porch, one hand raised to her shoulder again before the shadows hid her from his view.

"So what was it?"

Bobby's question made him jump.

"What was what?"

"Whatever it was about 'The Immortals' that you recognised."

"I don't know. There was something, but I just can't remember it."

The older man looked across at him.

"Maybe in Dad's journal," Sam continued. "Head back to the motel, would you?"

Bobby nodded and the big car roared underneath them, sounding like the Impala again, enough like home to make the weary hunter drift into a light, dreamless sleep.

He woke again as the engine shut off, blinking out through the window at the motel, set ablaze by the sun setting behind them.

"C'mon, Sam. Let's get inside and figure this mess out," Bobby murmured from the other seat, voice soft and kind. Sam clambered out, yawning, wandering blearily to the front door and fumbling with the lock before he shoved it open. He dropped onto the blankets he'd left in a twisted knot earlier. Reaching one long arm over the edge, he pulled the leather bound journal from the bag between the beds, studiously keeping his eyes away from the empty, neat bed beside him. He flipped it open, turning the pages idly, searching his memory for any reference to The Immortals or biker gangs as Bobby fired up his laptop.

The bright banner headlines on the local newspapers website caught Sam's eye and he sat forward as the older man scrolled through the pages. They both froze as a picture made its way up the screen, a young boy, thin face pale and serious, long hair starting to flop into his eyes, stared back at them.

"Jesus," Bobby muttered. Sam couldn't speak; suddenly found himself tearing through the pages of the journal. "He coulda been your damn twin."

He stopped, the pages falling open in his hands, a crude sketch of a grinning skull over the scrawled text glaring out at him, slamming memories into him from the depths of his mind.

"No. Oh no."

"Sam? What is it?"

"I know... Bobby. I know who's got him."

Sam turned tearing, burning eyes to his friend, handing him the book, struggling to find enough air in the suddenly stifling, too small room.

Bobby read the page quickly; face growing dark and jaw tightening into a grim, narrow line.

"The revenants? Hell. I remember this. John brought the two of you to my place afterwards. You were both pretty messed up."

Sam shivered, struggling to see the room past the vision of dead leaves turning dark with his brother's blood.

"I forgot them. How did I forget them?"

The older man glanced at him.

"You were a kid, Sam. You'd only just found about all of this," he hefted the journal, 'all of this' encompassing all the horrors and nightmares scrawled down in the pages of the book. "And you shut it out. With everything that happened, I wouldn't be surprised if Dean did as well"

Sam shivered again, leaning forward and dropping his boots to the floor, hunching forward to lean his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped white-knuckled between his knees.

"We gotta get him, Bobby. We gotta get him back."

Bobby stared at him, finally snapping the journal shut and crossing the space between them in a few long strides.

"We'll find him, Sam. We'll get him back and then we'll kill every one of those sons-of-bitches. For good."

Sam looked down at his hands; back up at the other hunter.

"They'll be in Maine. Back in Litchfield."

Bobby reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

"We'd best get moving."

He pulled away, felt Bobby come with him, holding tight for just a moment longer.

"We're gonna get him back, Sam."

Sam paused, forced all the conviction he had into his voice.

"I know."

As they packed their bags and started driving, he tried hard not to hear the lie in it.

**----------------------------------------------------**

**Petersburg, Pennsylvania**

**21st August, 1996 **

John couldn't breathe, couldn't remember how to move as he watched the dead man stumble and fall in a heap, sprawling over a pew a scant three metres away. All he could do was feel the numb tingling in his chest, the horror prickling under his skin.

_They found them... think you can get back in time?_

"You son-of-a-bitch. You damned son-of-a-bitch."

His voice shook, unrecognisable as he clambered shakily over the pews, hands trembling so badly the spent shotgun clattered to the stone floor. He reached the revenant, fisted his hands in the leather jacket and hauled the unresponsive figure up.

"You're lying. Tell me you're fucking lying!" he couldn't stop his growl building to a furious shout that echoed in the church as he shook the dead man, hard, turning and bodily hurling him into the fire still raging in the middle of the nave. He fell to his knees, retching dryly as the smell of roasting meat filled the air again, clawing at his hip for the machete, pent-up fury and desperation making his fingers clumsy. Finally dragging the blade free, he crawled over to the final two dead men, flinching away from the accusation in their empty eyes as they tried to fight him off, still weakened by the effects of the iron-jacketed blessing coursing through their blood from the shot gun wounds.

_No. They didn't find them. Dean wouldn't let them get Sammy. He'd get him out, get them both out. They're fine._

He couldn't shake the feeling of time slipping through his fingers again, tears that he couldn't stop hissing and spitting as they landed on the stones below heated by the flames. He yelled, hoarse and wordless as he swung the blade, sparks skittering away from the edge as it hit the stone under the revenants head once, twice.

He kept repeating the litany in his head as he hacked raggedly through their chests, tearing their hearts out with a savagery that vaguely shocked him. He knew, had always known he would do anything to protect his boys, but the burning need for revenge was so different to the vengeance that had consumed him since Mary's death that it scared him a little. It shook the lie he was building in his head to its core and he wept again as he burned the shrivelled organs and walked away, tears still dripping from his scruffy beard.

He left his impaled jacket behind, walked straight out through the gates, the shattered chain twisting and grinding loudly beneath his feet. The sight of the Impala almost brought him to his knees, only the cold half-truths he kept shoring up in his mind keeping him going as he forced himself to climb behind the wheel.

The music shattered him as he turned the wheel, and he sobbed once, hearing the dead man's voice laugh softly.

_Got enough tricks to save your boys? Think you can get back in time?_

"No. They're fine, they have to be," he muttered, over and over, voice thick and broken as he floored the gas. As he reached the junction at the end of the road he hesitated, undecided. He stared left, North and East, towards Maine, then right, towards the town that he knew was closer, torn between the desperate need to just go straight to his boys and the cold voice in his head pleading to just hear their voices before he set out.

The cold, calm logic won and he turned right, feeling as though it was his own heart that he'd torn out and left behind him as he forced himself to put more miles between himself and his family.

Time and again, he reached out to the radio, twisting the dial down, up, down again anguished by his son's music, bereft without it. The classic car had never seemed so big, the roar of the engine so subdued, so lost in the empty dark as the trees and the shadows of the Pennsylvanian forest blurred past outside. He barely saw any of it, driving on auto-pilot, drifting in the soft voices mocking him from the back of his head, cutting straight through the music and the litany he kept up until his voice turned rough and harsh.

"They're safe. Dean knows what to do. They're safe."

_Dean and little Sammy..._

"No. They're fine. No-one can find them. Nothing."

_They found them..._

"They're safe. They don't need me to save them. They're fine.

_Think you can get back in time?_

"God, please..."

He stopped hard, left the engine running and the door open as he threw himself out of the car, fumbling a quarter into the slot and dialling the number from memory. He cursed every single ring that knelled through the hand-set, reverberating in his skull, weakening his knees a little more each time. When it finally stopped he couldn't speak, just stood there as the irate voice on the other end demanded an explanation.

_Not Dean. It's not Dean._

_"Are you the prick who trashed this room? Huh? I still can't get the stains out of the fucking carpet, so you can damn well expect a bill for it. You hear me? This place looked like a damn bomb had gone off, for Christ's sake."_

The manager's voice receded to an insects' buzz, insignificant, devastating

"Oh god."

He sagged to his knees; let the cool plastic fall to bounce on the end of its cord, bumping against the side of his head as he wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering, the lie crashing down around him.

_They're gone. I lost them. Oh God, I lost them._


	5. You Shoot, You Lose

_The time has come and you're all alone,_

_And you know you're not dreaming._

_It's heaven's door, you're ringing on the bell,_

_Will they let you in, or you going to hell?_

**Litchfield, Maine**

**August 22nd, 1996**

Heat burned down his spine, a dull throb that spread out from his shoulders, blood pounding through his veins, making his head explode over and over again. He didn't move, didn't give in to the groan churning in his stomach, just let his body hang limply from his aching shoulders, head forward so that his chin brushed against his chest, eyes lightly closed.

He listened, struggling to focus through the pain and heard slow footsteps, the soft murmur of voices he didn't recognise, searching the dark for the one sound that mattered.

_Sammy._

From the moment he'd seen his brother's eyes widen in shock, he'd known they were royally screwed. One man - or whatever the hell those things were, 'cause they sure as hell weren't anything human - he could have dealt with, but the assurance in the biker's grin had told him all he needed to know about the odds. He'd taken a few steps back to stand over his brother as he heard leaves crunch behind him, felt Sammy scrunch himself into a tiny ball as the first blows began to rain down on him.

For a few heartbeats he'd managed to hold them off, ducking and weaving with a frantic speed he knew he couldn't keep up. His knuckles ached, stinging from the blows that could have put Rocky down for the count. These guys, in their matching leather, just shrugged them off and came right back at him, until one punch snaked past his guard and slammed into his back, his knees buckling as white hot fire slashed through his kidneys. Reeling with the pain, he couldn't stop the fists that came at his head, dimly felt the skin above his eye split, blood trickling hot down his face.

Then it was over.

He'd finally come to, feeling the night-chill in the air, knowing he'd been out for too long. His arms were tied tightly behind him, pulled harshly up against a heater, pushing his shoulders forward painfully. The muscles in his back trembled, burning with the strain and the bruises as he listened through the pounding in his head, searching the low jumble of noises he could make out for anything familiar.

When it came, all thought of pretence blew out of his mind. His brother's soft moan brought his head snapping up and he lunged wildly against the ropes, making the heater rattle behind him. The sound bounced around the space and he dimly recognised the shadows of the basement in his peripheral vision. His stomach twisted as he remembered his brother's innocent joy at the dusty, cluttered space when they'd explored the old house together, two days ago.

"Sam?"

The three men, still wearing their matching jackets, laughed as he called out, voice raspy from the swelling boot-print on his throat.

"Sammy, you okay kiddo?"

He didn't wait for an answer, just turned a hot, searing glare on the tall, lean man leading the mirth.

"Let him go. You hurt him, you lay one hand on him and I'll kill you. Swear to God."

"Ah, Dean, I'd love to see you try."

Dean froze when he heard his name in the quiet, amused voice, settling warily back as the man approached, crouching just out of reach and staring at him. He kept one eye on his brother, groggily pushing himself to his knees, nursing his head.

"What the hell do you want?"

The man smiled, considering him.

"You know, when I found the pair of you, I thought your daddy was crazy, hunting with kids in tow. You're a liability, a distraction." He reached out, ran a hand down the bruises on the side of Dean's head, the ring on his finger digging gently into the imprint it had left over his cheekbone and the Winchester flinched away with a snarl.

"Screw you," he ground out, voice harsh and angry when inside he was screaming, the mention of his father confirmation of his worst nightmare. He'd failed. John was gone, had to be, would never have let these _things _come after them alive, and he'd messed it up, let them take his brother. Something opened up inside him, yawning black and cold around his heart and he clenched his fists, fought against the bonds again, relishing the pain that burned his arms as strained muscles tightened, the skin beneath the ropes chafing and splitting.

The man chuckled, patting his cheek gently, the malice in his cold, flat eyes making the tender gesture a mockery.

"Then when I saw you fight, I knew why he thought he could leave you. He was wrong, of course, but I can understand why he would think you'd be safe." He stood, sauntered away from the restrained hunter and part of Dean's mind noted the logo, bright across the back of the leather jacket.

_The Immortals._

The Death's Head grinning at him was all he needed to see to piece together the clues he'd been instinctively gathering without even consciously noticing; their eerie strength and speed, the chill in their touch, perceptible even through the fire of the blows, the unnatural light in their eyes and the faintest grey tint to their skin...

"Revenants," he blurted out, "You're revenants?"

"See? I knew there had to be more to you than there seemed to be."

The man smiled at him, almost proudly, wandering idly around the basement.

"You know, coming out here almost saved you. I found your motel easy enough, you think about clearing up the mess in your room before you booked? The manager was a little pissed about that."

Dean sneered at the dead man, looked past him to his brother, huddled on the floor, his mind racing as he frantically tried to pull together the scraps of plans darting through his head.

"But you'd gone, just disappeared and there was no trail left to follow. You're better at covering your tracks than your daddy is, that's for sure. Not good enough, though."

He forced himself not to flinch at the words as they echoed in his head. _Not good enough .You couldn't stop them, couldn't save Sammy and now you're helpless._

He watched as the man stepped closer to his brother, brushing a gentle hand through his dishevelled hair, the boy shrinking away with a low moan and Dean threw himself forward against the ropes again, yelling furiously. The revenant laughed again, pulled Sam up against him, his brother stilling as the dead man's arm wound around his chest and hugged him close. Sam's eyes were wide, terrified, boring into Dean as he fell into them, drowning in the desperate trust there.

He surged against the ropes, over and over, feeling blood dripping from his wrists and not caring at all as the revenant roared with laughter, the other two dead men coming forward at his languid gesture. They slammed him back against the heater, the back of his skull cracking sharply against the metal, stars blinding him, his head ringing so loudly that he barely heard Sam cry his name.

He crumpled to the floor, arms still twisted behind him; head hanging low as he fought the dark trying to swallow him whole. The whisper in his ear made his blood run cold, razor-sharp through his veins.

"And I could use a boy as smart as your brother. Your Daddy killed my family, so I figure I'll just take his to replace them. Starting with little Sammy..."

"No," he forced out, teeth gritted against the pain as he tried to lift his head, against the terror shaking every inch of him.

"You know how a revenant is made, Dean?"

The dead man's breath tickled his ear, the side of his face as he shook his head, mute denial of the question, of the threat he was powerless to stop.

"First, the body has to die. Slowly, painfully, so that the spirit lingers for a while."

_Sammy._

"Then the spirit is bound back into the body, but the spell isn't complete yet. Oh no, there's one more thing to make a revenant."

_No. Please... _"Sammy..." _please don't..._

He couldn't focus enough to work out what he'd said, what he'd only thought, the revenant's voice drifting through his mind, pushing him away from the world as he tried to lift his head, tried to listen past the horror ringing in his ears.

"He has to feed to be complete, Dean. He has to kill. And who do you think we'll be bringing to dinner? Poor Sammy. He'll never forget, you know. He'll live forever, and he'll never forget the taste of your blood."

Dean moaned, low in his throat, his tenuous grip on the world slipping, tears springing into his eyes and stinging the cuts and scrapes on his face as he forced his head up, one agonising inch at a time, his heart pounding in time to his brother's sobbing cries.

"Sammy... please..."

His vision tunnelled, greyed out as he saw the other two revenants close in on the boy, barely more than a child, everything he lived for and he wept as he tumbled into the dark. He felt the dead man beside him drag a sharp nail across his throat, the smell of his blood welling up from the deep scratch following him into the emptiness that rang with the sound of his world ending.

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Litchfield, Maine**

**October 28th, 2008**

The house hadn't changed.

Somehow, that made it worse, disorienting him, a jarring sense of stepping back in time shaking him as he crouched by the front door, lock picks in hand. Somehow, he almost expected to walk in and find the shotgun still beside the door, a line of salt laid carefully across the threshold.

They weren't there. He led Bobby into the hall, the pistol in his hand heavy with the weight of the consecrated iron rounds as he held it ready. The two hunters crept over the groaning floorboards, avoiding the sagging patches where the wood had rotted through. Bobby stepped close to him as they neared the stairs, breathing in his ear,

"I don't like this, Sam. Where the hell are they?"

Sam shrugged, not liking the oppressive silence any more than the older man did, but still struggling to shake off the memories of being thirteen again, waking up to hear his brother's voice calling his name.

He didn't hear Bobby echo the memory, didn't feel the older man shake him as he slid to his knees, lost in the sight of _the shadows wreathing the dead men as they laughed at Dean's angry, worried cries rasping through the quiet. When the leader pulled him close, arm snaking cold around his chest, he sought his brother's eyes, searching for the reassurance that had always been there, even when he hadn't realised he needed it._

_It wasn't there now._

_He shivered, tried to fight off the arm locked around him as he saw his big brother throw himself at the restraints again and again, pain twisting his face but never stopping until the other two men threw him back into the metal heater with a sickening thud._

_He fell from the dead man's grasp, lay choking on the floor, vision dimming as he watched the revenant walk over to his brother, now slumped against the heater, moaning softly as he struggled to lift his head. The dead man crouched beside him, whispering softly in his ear as the others closed in on Sam, their chill settling over him, turning his world to black emptiness until he heard shouts and cries, a roar of fury punctuated by a shotgun blast that seemed to shake the world to its foundations._

_He struggled up onto his elbows, head spinning, heart stopping as he listened to someone call his brother's name, voice so thick with tears he didn't recognise it until he managed to pry one eye open and see his father, cradling his brother's still figure, blood spattering them both._

_Sam crawled over the floorboards, never noticing the pools of black, black blood that he dragged himself through. He almost crawled into his father's lap, reaching out to grip his brother's hand as John pulled him close, murmuring his brother's name again, his name..._

_"Sam!"_

He lifted his head, found himself wrapped in Bobby's arms, shivering convulsively as the hunter whispered in his ear.

"You back with me, kid?"

"What happened?"

"You tell me. You just dropped. Damn near gave me a freakin' heart attack."

Sam pulled himself away, sinking back against the wall, suddenly aware he was panting heavily.

"I just... I remembered...when the revenants had us..."

"You okay now?"

He took a deep breath, smelling mildew and decay, and something else beneath it.

_Blood._

Bobby caught his look, nodded slightly.

"Yeah. Place reeks of it. They were here. You know this place Sam, where would they take him?"

Sam thought for a moment, slowly pulling himself up the wall to his feet. He remembered the short time they'd spent in this house, the late summer nights starting to cool as the season wound to a close and they explored the place. It didn't take long for him to recognise the shadowy room where he'd woken up in the memory; the basement had felt different to the rest of the house even then.

"Basement."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

He led the way to the kitchen, straining his ears for any sound of the revenants, for any sign of his brother. There was nothing, just a house that he feared, with a sickening wrench in his chest, was empty.

_No. I'm not too late. I can't be._

He stopped outside the door to the stairs, laid one hand against it and felt the chill settle in to his skin.

_Here. They were here._

His boot slammed against the door, a jolt shivering up his spine as the solid slab of wood didn't move. He kicked it again and again, suddenly frantic with the need to get through it. He barely paused to catch his balance between each blow, dimly aware of Bobby's boot landing right next to his, knowing just one thing: the absolute certainty that his brother was on the other side.

The door finally broke, the lock tearing out of the wood. He was through and down the short stairs before it had even slipped free of the jamb and clattered to the steps, gun half-raised as he stared blindly, desperately into the dark.

"Dean?" he whisper-called, hoarse with the effort of being heard without making too much noise, the hairs on the back of his neck crawling with the sensation of unseen eyes watching him.

His vision slowly adjusted, the room dissolving into muted greys as he peered around him, finally registering the stench of blood and filth, of rot and decay.

"Dean?"

Smaller this time, hesitant, suddenly unsure, thirteen years old again and waking up to see his brother, blood-spattered, limp and pale in his father's arms, face streaked with John's tears and his own.

"Sam?"

His heart leaped, crashed back down as he placed Bobby's voice a fraction too late. He shook his head, took another, slow step into the room, attention caught by a shape in the corner. Not his brother, the huddled figure was too small to be a fully-grown adult, but long hair and gangly arms were still somehow horribly familiar. He gulped, crouching slowly next to the corpse and rolling the boy gently, whispering his own name.

"Sam..."

"The missing boy?"

He nodded, reached out to close the dark, staring eyes and froze, finally registering the blood caked around the boy's lips, the dark veins twisting across his cheeks, still plump with baby fat, bruised with mud in a familiar pattern.

_Dean's footprint._

He'd seen it a thousand times, left in water on the floors of countless motel bathrooms, in blood once, after his brother had carried him, barely conscious, across a stream lined with razor-sharp slate, boots slung around his neck ready for the three-mile hike back to the car.

His head snapped up, gaze suddenly sharp, sure again, turning unerringly to the far corner. An involuntary whimper escaped him as he saw a deeper shadow there and he scrambled across the floor, the wet, thick air choking him as he saw pale skin, ripped and stained black with blood, bruises mottling the legs and bare feet beneath the mud and filth.

Bobby's "Sam, wait!" couldn't stop him reaching out, rolling the still, bloodied figure towards him and he moaned softly, low in his throat as his brother's face lolled against his wrist, eyes hooded and staring emptily, accusingly at him. He shuddered, snatched his hand back as his mind echoed with the sound of his brother's screams, the howling of the hellhound he'd never heard but that had still haunted his dreams for so long.

_Not again. I can't, Dean, please. Not again._

He gathered Dean to him, tearing at the sodden ropes around his wrists until they fell apart, cradling his brother in his arms, sobbing in relief at the feel of slow, slight breaths puffing against his neck, a weak pulse beating under his fingers as barely healed wounds broke open and spilled fresh blood onto him

Bobby watched the brothers, feeling his heart break as tears splashed onto pale skin. Something twisted inside him, hatred and a burning vengeance he hadn't felt in years, not since he'd watched a cloud of black smoke scream out of some nameless girl's throat and howl as it was dragged into the lines of the trap scrawled in his blood. All he'd seen that night, as the demon he'd hunted for years was finally sent screaming back to hell was a cloud of dark hair, tumbling across his face on their wedding night, drenched in the crimson that spilled down the hilt of the knife in his hand.

Now, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the clouded, bloodied jade that stared vacantly into nothing, as dead inside as his wife's had been, all those years ago, for all that the boy still breathed.

The grizzled hunter suddenly realised his own lungs were screaming and dragged in a stumbling, gasping gulp of the fetid air, rank with the damp scent of mould beneath the sharper tang of blood. The sudden rush of oxygen made him dizzy as he stepped forward, lifting a hand to Sam's shoulder. The younger man turned on him, eyes wild, teeth bared in a feral snarl that did nothing to disguise the grief twisting his face, and Bobby forced down the flinch that tried to shiver through him at the sight.

"Sam, come on boy. We need to get him out of here," he said, softly, voice as gentle as he could make it through the tears clogging his throat. He squeezed the boy's shoulder a little, just enough to offer support, careful not to step any closer and crowd him. He didn't know what he would have done if the terrified rage hadn't just drained out of the distraught Winchester, didn't know what he could have said to bring him back.

Instead, Sam sagged against his hand, head dropping back to meet his brother's empty stare as his shoulders heaved.

"Come on," Bobby repeated, tugging gently until Sam stood, cradling the battered figure in his arms as easily as if his brother was a child. He steered the pair back out of the cellar, leaving the dead boy behind, suppressing another shiver as he saw just how much like a young Sam he looked, and knew just what it would have cost Dean to stop him.

And he finally knew what it would take to break Dean Winchester.

_**A/N: Next, and final chapter – along with the playlist - will be posted from behind the biggest rock I can find… **_


	6. I Tell To You My Story

_**A/N: So here it is, the final chapter of State of Grace. I hope you enjoy it – but before you start, let me promise – there is a sequel! I want to say thanks to my beta's extraordinaire, Ilka and Jane and to everyone who reviewed, or who read this second time around over here. Hope you liked it as much this time 'round! **_

_**Now, enjoy! *evil grin as I duck back behind my rock…***_

_I woke up from a dream, __  
__I woke up I was crying. _  
_I saw an animal, _  
_with eyes like mine, on fire. _

_**~~HoC~~**_

**August 23rd, 1996**

He drifted, the warmth of the blankets over him not reaching the chill deep inside, the cold that spiralled out from the empty place where his heart used to beat. Dimly, he was aware of a hand wrapped around his, a familiar touch that he shrank away from, echoes chasing him into the dark as he mumbled, tried to run away but couldn't move.

_Not good enough .You couldn't stop them, couldn't save Sammy and now you're helpless...You know how a revenant is made, Dean?_

"No. Please..."

"Dean? Can you hear me?"

_Your Daddy killed my family, so I figure I'll just take his to replace them. _

"Please don't..."

_Starting with little Sammy..._

"Come on, Dean. Open your eyes for me, son."

"Sammy... please..."

_He'll live forever, and he'll never forget... _

"Dean?"

He shivered at the soft, deep voice, the gentleness in it repellent, a terrifying pity that drove ice deep into him. He pulled away from it, yanking weakly at his hand as strong, rough fingers held tight, finally dragging himself free and rolling away, bringing his knees up to his chest. He hugged them tight, ignoring the pain in the bruises and strained muscles, tears choking him as they welled up from the endless, hollow shadows around his heart.

He felt heat brush over his shoulder, hesitate then draw back with a quiet, weary sigh. He sobbed once, burying his face in his arms and the pillow, tasting iron in his mouth as his lip split open under the pressure.

He let go, couldn't hold on anymore, didn't care which as he slipped back into the dark that fogged his memory and let him forget, the echoes that he couldn't silence fading to meaningless sound. He never knew how long he hovered there, safe in the darkness, the cold, fighting the pull of the world until he had nothing left to fight with.

Dean opened his eyes slowly, blinked lazily, feeling his eyelashes scratch over the cotton of the pillowcase, stretching out in front of him. He lay on his side, back aching fiercely as bruises stretched too far. His knees were still hugged against his chest, the faint, lingering heat of a touch on his shoulder not forgotten. He rolled his head a little, hissed involuntarily at the stiffness in his spine.

"Dean?"

He froze at his father's voice.

_Not good enough. I failed._

"You awake?"

He mumbled something, throat dry and scratchy, no energy left to hide from the concern.

"Want some water?"

Dean nodded, barely moving his pounding head. He couldn't look at his father as John came around the bed, carrying a small paper cup in one hand, face pale and worn.

The older man gently slipped a rough hand under his head, held the cup to his lips and lifted him enough to sip at the tepid water. It slid down his throat like nectar, cooling, soothing, but it rested like lead in his gut. He pulled back and John gently eased him back to the pillow, setting the cup on the table beside the bed and settling into a chair he pulled forward from the shadows.

His father stared down at him, dark eyes sad and bloodshot.

_Grief._

It was the only word he had for the feeling in those hazel eyes, so shockingly like his brother's. He shuddered away from the comparison, turning his head back into the pillow. He heard his father huff out another sigh, an edge of irritation snapping beneath the worry and compassion.

"Dean. Come on, kiddo. It's okay."

He shook his head, mumbled a denial into the pillow, wondering how his father could ever lie to him like that. It would never be okay again.

"You're safe now. Alright? Sam - "

_He'll live forever and he'll never forget the taste of your blood..._

"Don't!"

He bolted upright, crying out, desperate not to hear the terrible, awful truth in his father's voice. His head throbbed, agonising pain burning through him and he groaned, sank back to the bed, clutching at his temples. He felt his father's hands catch him, ease him down, rubbing small circles on the back of one shoulder, and he mumbled again into his hands, "Don't. I know I screwed up. I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey no, Dean. You didn't screw up, okay?"

"They were too strong. I tried, Dad, I _tried_ but I couldn't stop them! And they took us and they... they... I couldn't... Dad, I couldn't do anything!"

He lifted his head, stared at his father, desperate to find some kind of absolution instead of pity. But John stared back at him, eyes wide and shocked and for a delirious moment he wondered if his father really knew how badly he'd failed.

"Dean..."

"They... they turn' him, Da', they turned him and I couldn' shtop them!" he shouted, voice slurring, trying to think past the throbbing, pounding in his head, trying to work out what it was that seemed so jarringly wrong.

"Dean, listen to me!"

He turned away again, couldn't stand to look at the sadness in his father's eyes, barely aware of the soft, vehement curse as he let the darkness come back and start to drown him. He shook, shivering as he slid into it, not caring, the cold finally breaking through the thin wall around his aching heart to drag him down.

The hot touch of skin against his burned it away. He froze, didn't dare do anything to disturb the fragile dream as he focussed on the small hand tucked into his. He couldn't believe it, couldn't shake away the vision of two dead men closing in on his cowering brother as his own blood spilled hot down his throat.

A head burrowed into his chest, long hair tickling his jaw and his breath hitched once, a larger hand closing softly around his shoulder.

"It's okay. I promise, Dean. It's okay."

He sobbed, shoulders hitching as he felt tears spill down his cheeks, soak his brother's head as Sam pressed tightly against his chest. He finally dared look up at his father, dimly remembering the cold certainty that his family was gone. John smiled at him, wearily, sinking into a chair at the side of the bed.

"Okay?"

He nodded, wrapped one arm around his brother's shoulders, wincing a little as his wrist, wrapped thickly, brushed too hard across the bedclothes.

"They should heal up in a week or so."

They sat in silence for a while, his mind still spinning, trying to reconcile his memories with the unconnected present.

"Wha' happened?"

"They split up. I followed the larger group, but those three traced me back to you."

"How?"

"I followed them back, knew you'd've holed up in a house somewhere when I found out you weren't in the motel room. Then..." his father paused for so long, he thought he wouldn't finish. "I was lucky. I got there, and they had you two down in the basement. You were out of it and Sammy..." he trailed off again, and this time neither of them needed to hear the rest.

"I never should have let them get to - "

The door opened, cutting John off.

"Mr. Paice?"

Dean jumped at the sharp query, shrinking back into the pillows as a stern faced nurse poked her head around the door.

"I'm sorry. Visiting hours are over."

John stood and talked to her, a low murmur of voices and Dean thought he'd never heard anyone sound less sorry. Sam's hands tightened around fistfuls of his thin, hospital t-shirt, the younger boy pressing close against him as if he would never let go and right at that moment, Dean welcomed it. He wrapped his arm around his brother, tucking his head down against Sam's, suddenly feeling very young as he stared at the shadows outside the window.

_They're still out there._

He didn't question how he knew it, the shiver working its way up from the base of his spine was the only answer he needed.

_Somewhere, they're still there and I can't stop them._

Sam squeaked breathlessly as his arm tightened hard around the younger boy but his brother didn't pull back, just burrowed further into him, breath quick and hot against his aching ribs.

"I'm here, Sammy. I won't let them get you, I swear to god I'll kill them before they ever touch you again," he whispered, so quietly his brother never would have heard it if he hadn't been pressed so tightly against his side.

_But I can't stop them._

_'Your Daddy killed my family, so I figure I'll just take his to replace them.'_

He shivered at the whisper in his mind, dragged in a shuddering breath as John turned back to him.

"Sorry, kiddo, we gotta go."

His father reached out, gently taking hold of Sam's arm. Dean nodded, clenching his jaw tight against the plea wanting to escape.

_Don't go. I can't stop them if you go. I can't stop them taking you, or me._

He swallowed them down, whispered a shaky goodnight in his brother's ear and watched them leave, eyes fixed to the bright light spilling under the door long after they'd gone, the dead man's voice scraping across his nerves.

_Your Daddy killed my family, so I figure I'll just take his to replace them. Starting with little Sammy..._

"No. I won't let you touch him. I won't ever let you touch us again."

_You know how a revenant is made, Dean?_

"I won't," he whispered to the dark, shutting his eyes against the sound of the lie in his own voice.

_**~~HoC~~**_

**Starbird Corner, Maine**

**October 28th 2008**

Sam barely noticed the motel room around them, the tidy, dated décor unimportant background noise that he simply tuned out. It was quiet and the manager hadn't asked any questions as he'd carried his brother into the room through the early afternoon mist, head tucked against his shoulder, blood spilling over his hands from the re-opened wounds on Dean's back.

Bobby had helped him ease the empty shell of a man onto the bed furthest from the door, taking one look at his back and turning away, grabbing his phone from his pocket.

Sam listened, his eyes locked onto his brother's as he crouched by the bed, desperately searching the blank, empty stare for him, finding nothing. It felt as though someone had buckled him into a straightjacket three sizes too small, his arms still burning from the strain of carrying his brother, thinner now but still a heavy, solid mass of bone and muscle. He couldn't draw a full breath, managing on quick, shallow gulps of air that nauseated him and ached dully in his lungs.

"Jack? It's Bobby Singer. Yeah. Yeah, you too."

He heard the strain in the older man's voice, the thickness of the tears deepening it, making the hunter sound hoarse and tired.

"I need to call in that favour, Jack. No, no I'm fine. It's a... a friend. He's in a pretty bad way."

He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, wondering at Bobby's ability for understatement. But he was lost, dizzy in the dark, too long without real rest and the worry pounding through him made him sway on his knees.

"Here."

He jumped at Bobby's voice, suddenly so close to him as a chair bumped gently at the back of his legs. Silently, he pushed himself up and sank into it, darting a quick, questioning look at the older man.

"He's coming. Sam, he ain't a doctor, but he's the best I can do."

"I know. Thanks."

Bobby nodded, turned away, hesitating as his gaze swept across the figure on the bed. Sam heard him sigh shakily, heard the rasp of his hand scrubbing across his beard, felt the cool space at his back expand as Bobby moved away.

He sat there in the chair, listening to their friend pour salt lines across the door and windows, the faint slide of the grease pencil as sigils and runes slowly grew on the walls, the sharp snap as shotguns and pistols were loaded.

He was numb, cold in a place the warm air spilling from the heater on the wall could do nothing to reach. But he couldn't shiver, couldn't move, still struggling just to breathe as he fell forever into that empty stare, drowning in the lifeless, icy green, choking as tears slid unnoticed down his cheeks.

The soft knock at the door echoed through the space between them and he watched, eyes swollen and red as Bobby shot him a quick look and crossed to the door. He slipped his hand into the duffle at his feet, grabbing the stock of the shotgun as the older man peered through the Judas hole and sighed.

Making a quick, reassuring gesture to Sam, Bobby stepped back and opened the door, revealing a short, middle aged man glaring at him.

"Jack. Good to see you."

Jack ignored the out stretched hand and met Sam's stare squarely. The younger man wanted to shrink back from the heat in his eyes, fear and anger and sorrow long thought forgotten, stirred up again and all the more potent for it.

"Can you help him? Please?"

Jack blinked at the query, glare softening a little at the plea in his voice and Sam watched his eyes flicker to the still figure on the bed between them. He swallowed hard, knowing what the older man was seeing, feeling the blood itch on his hands where it had flowed over them as he carried his brother away from the derelict house.

"Jesus," Jack muttered and the fire in his eyes finally melted, pity stirring in their depths as they darted back to meet Sam's again.

"What the hell happened?" he asked as he started forward, already lifting the heavy bag he carried in one hand. Sam let Bobby answer, satisfied that the stranger was going to help them; he returned his attention to his brother, staring into lifeless eyes that seemed more unfamiliar than Jack's.

"Don't know, exactly. He was taken three days ago, something from _our _line of work that had a grudge against the boys. We found him a couple hours ago, like this."

"He needs a hospital, Bobby."

Sam laughed silently, bitterly. Hospitals had stopped being an option for anything less than imminent death a year ago.

_But he's not there anymore. He might as well be dead already._

The soft whisper in his head strangled the angry mirth instantly and he clenched his jaw tight, reaching out to skim one hand across his brother's pale brow. His shoulders hitched as he got the same response he'd had every single one of the last hundred times he'd made the gesture: nothing.

No sound, no movement, no life.

_I'm alone. I don't want to be alone, Dean._

The thought wouldn't leave him as he sat and stared into his brother's face, through the three hours it took the veterinarian to pluck the shards of glass from the jagged wound on Dean's back and stitch it closed...

_Don't go._

...to set the broken knuckles and throw more sutures into the split skin across them, wrapping both hands tightly in thick, white bandages, casting as many worried glances at Sam as he did at the patient...

_Don't leave me._

...to run gentle, professional fingers over Dean's ribs, jutting out of his wasted frame, muttering in a low monotone as he slipped IV's into the crook of each elbow, "Saline and nutrients. He's malnourished and dehydrated, so I'll make sure you have enough of these to keep you going..."

Sam tuned the instructions out, knew Bobby would take care of it as he listened to the plea running over and over in his head.

_Please. Come back, Dean. Please._

No sound, no movement, no life.

Nothing.

For two days.

_I'm alone _had turned to _I was too late, _and _Please _to _I'm sorry, _but _Don't go _and _Come back _stayed constant, a litany in his head, whispered aloud occasionally when he knew Bobby couldn't hear. He didn't know why he couldn't speak them in front of the hunter, just couldn't force his voice to work whenever the older man was in the room, answering questions with a nod or a shake of the head or a shrug.

"Sam, I'm going up to Jack's. Get some more fluids."

He nodded now, the familiar excuse they both needed desperately heavier between them every time. He felt Bobby's eyes linger on him, heard him sigh before the door clicked shut between them and the room was still again.

Sam echoed the sigh quietly, breath hitching at the end in a dry sob. He had no tears left, thought he must have used up a lifetimes supply in the last week.

"Come on Dean. Come back," he whispered, voice rough and throaty from lack of use, his hands trembling as he reached out automatically to check the IV's, studiously keeping his eyes away from the heavy bruising the thick needles that had been designed for use in the tougher hide of cattle and horses caused in tender human flesh. He flinched as his fingers caught in one line, tugging it hard, then knocked against his brother's heavily bandaged hand as he tried to pull free, his eyes darting back to Dean's pale face, searching for any response, for _anything _that meant he wasn't alone.

His jaw trembled as he waited, swallowing hard, sickened by the deep shadows turning Dean's vacant eyes into hollows. The thin slit of green barely visible through long lashes clumped together into dark 'vees', staring back at him, past him, through him into a place he couldn't even begin to imagine.

"I'm so sorry, man. Come b-back."

Sam's shoulders hitched once, twice, his vision blurring and his face twisted as he wrapped his hand around Dean's, tears burning his throat, drowning him as they splashed onto their joined hands.

"Don't leave me, Dean. D-don't you dare leave m-me alone again," he stuttered, his head dropping as he hunched forward, curling around his brother's silence and never breaking it as the sobs wracked him.

_**TBC…**_

_**End notes: Look forward to seeing you on the next one – The Darkness Before The Dawn, posting after a brief fortnight's hiatus! (Would I make you wait longer? Me? Mwahaha…)  
Thanks for reading, and huge thanks once again to Zatnikatel who convinced me to keep posting this story here. I'm just off to read the final chapter of her awesome 'Killing Moon.' If you haven't read it – do! There's a tale that'll set you sniffling. And screaming at the computer…**_

_**Thanks for reading, **_

_**Cal**_

_Playlist: All chapter titles and lyrics came from the same songs. They're listed here in order, with incidental lyrics, in order of appearance._

_Chapter 1: In Keeping Secrets of Silent EarthCoheed & Cambria  
Chapter 2: The Road I'm On3 Doors Down  
Chapter 3: Map of the ProblematiqueMuse  
Dazed and ConfusedLed Zeppelin  
Chapter 4: So ColdBreaking Benjamin  
Chapter 5: Soldiers Make Good TargetsStereophonics  
Chapter 6: All Misery/FlowersThe Gutter Twins_


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